A Steele Moment
by My Barbaric YAWP
Summary: For a moment, she’s tempted to leave LA—to follow him wherever he wanders in the hope that wandering will bring them home. But who is the wanderer--who might she leave behind? Is it worth the risk?


A Steele Moment

This little excursion into Laura's mind takes place peripherally at the end of "Steele Searching Part 2." While I highly recommend the episode, you don't need to know it intimately to enjoy this story.

Obviously I do not own Remington Steele, because if I did I would probably do nothing all day except clutch the rights and cackle to myself. All right, maybe that's a little extreme, but still, I would have better things to do besides share fan fiction attempts with you wonderful people.

* * *

"It seems to me that if our relationship is to continue, it'll have to be here."

And a moment passes—one glorious, silver lined, gem studded moment in which the thought runs through her mind: _Why the hell not?_

It's as seductive as his smile—so very tantalizing to think the solution to their problems could be so simple. _Why not?_ They've spent three years hiding behind the Agency and their insecurities in LA. In London there would be nowhere to hide—no distractions, no interruptions. No excuses.

Maybe…

And he's been homesick lately; it's barely perceptible, but she can tell. There's something about ninety degree days in December that makes him stare longingly out the window—a little boy waiting for the first snow. In rare flashes she can see young Harry as he should have been—bundled up against the elements, cheeks rosy from the cold, tiny, mittened hands held by large, tender ones.

In spring, he looks for the change of seasons, the harbinger of new life. But the world is green already; the blossoms come without ceremony, and the flowers fade into the lush, everyday background. The stagnation frustrates him—enough to cloud his morning greeting with clipped tones and strained smiles.

Summer is also a trying time for a man who never leaves home without the appropriate jacket. Some days it's painful to watch him parboil himself in a suit or—heaven forbid—his leather sports jacket. But something within him demands the jacket—some inner propriety he must have inherited genetically; there's no way he picked it up along his grand tour of Ireland's back alleys.

But the real heartbreaker is the fall. The leaves don't change colors. No matter how much he stares, no matter how long he waits, they remain the same flourishing green of every other season. His hooky quotient spikes in the fall—a remarkable event all on its own. But far more remarkable is his destination. Investigating his disappearances, she expected to find another woman, a new con, or a poker game at least. Instead, she spent two days following him north—all the way to Oregon—only to watch him sit in the Auburn for two hours staring at the foliage before turning tail for home.

The next time she found herself parked behind him on a tree shaded back road in Oregon, she let her presence be known. She climbed into the Auburn beside him wordlessly, settling back into the seat without explanation. He didn't ask for one; he'd didn't even look particularly surprised. They spent the rest of the afternoon in silence— he staring at the leaves, she watching him from the corner of her eye.

As the sun began to set, he turned to her, his eyes devoid of the usual trickster twinkle. "I suppose it'd be more practical to take one car from now on. This little parade's a bit ostentatious, Laura, even by my standards." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, affectionate amusement bringing back the luster to his eyes.

She followed him back to Los Angeles the next day, wondering what kind of desire could draw a man that far north for the foliage.

Their trips were never planned. One fall morning he would appear unannounced and unshaven at her door, hands in jacket pockets, keys still in the Auburn's ignition—a dangerous practice in any city, but damned stupid in LA.

The first time he surprised her it was still dark outside. Disorientated and half asleep, she stumbled down the stairs after him in pajamas, stocking feet stuffed into boots, pulling on a jacket as she went. She slept most of the way up, waking gradually as the crisp autumn sunlight warmed her eyelids. She yawned, stretching a little before realizing that the surface beneath her head was too soft to be the window sill. She opened her eyes to meet his brief smile before he turned somber eyes back to the road. She sat up quickly, sleep fading from her eyes with the growing awareness that she'd spent the trip curled into his side and the less pleasant realization that she hadn't showered, dressed or eaten before leaving the appartment that morning.

After that uncomfortable excursion, she made a point of keeping a duffel bag stuffed with a change of clothes, snacks, blankets, and two tooth brushes by the door. Thus prepared, she waited, watching his glances out the window grow more lingering and his sparkling eyes dim with the never changing daylight. But even as the sparkle faded, something else grew to take its place—someone else, she should say. A man she only saw all too briefly in quiet moments when he thought no one would notice—a man who had never been Harry or MichaelorDouglas or even Remington Steele. A man with no name—one who lived behind the sparkle and the con, who smiled without motive and laughed without reservation.

As he peeked out more and more often from those bright, blue eyes, she steeled herself for another early wake up call. This time she met him at the door, showered and dressed, dufflebag in hand. She caught his distant eyes and smiled as something of their brightness returned. He reached for the bag, and she accepted his offer, kissing his cheek in the process. They drove without speaking, and she felt the silence as tangible as his presence beside her.

He was always silent on these pilgrimages, not sullen, but thoughtful. He was somewhere else entirely, and she would have been slightly annoyed if she did not understand the significance of being allowed along at all. He wanted to be alone—that was clear—but his definition of alone had room for her, too.

She still wonders what it is about the leaves that capture him so. He's never exactly been the Boy Scout type. Nature just isn't his particular cup of tea—champagne is more to his taste—caviar and room service and after dinner mints; he's not a trout and campfire coffee kind of man, though he probably could be if he felt so inclined. Probably has been, come to that.

But the way he stares at those leaves… It's not a nature lover's appreciation. It's nostalgia, or something like it. It's a longing—a caress—a mother's, perhaps? A lover's? She'll never know, not for a very long time—not until she gets the nerve to ask. Maybe after twenty years she'll ask; maybe one crisp, fall day he'll turn to her—the Auburn top down and a cozy plaid blanket tucked around her knees—and he'll tell her about the leaves. Maybe. And maybe the move to England would alleviate the seasonal fascination with the leaves altogether. Maybe happily ever after awaits them, just beyond the city borders, just beyond their current comfort zone. Maybe the Auburn could be shipped over…

But then she'll never know about the leaves. And without the leaves, what does she know of him? A change of scenery might be pleasant; it might give her the relationship she's been working on for years, but then again, she might lose _him_—the man she's come to know and love. The one that peeks out of the sparkling eyes just as danger looms ahead; the one that forgets the front for one fraction of a second when he's startled or deeply moved. The one who stares at the leaves like a lost, familiar face, and holds her hand all the way home, just to make sure she's there. Are the seconds worth it? Are the few scattered days? Maybe.

It's a big maybe. But the sparkle is not unpleasant, and the charm doesn't pale. And then there are the leaves. Someday she's going to ask about the leaves.

And the moment passes; the wistfulness and temptation pass with it as Mildred knocks and steps inside.

* * *

He looks up from the passport, and the sparkle is gone; there are tears in its place.

"Oh, girls—I'm touched." It's just a second, but she catches it—the flash of affection and gratitude, and the lingering softness in his eyes, even as the sparkle returns. It's a nice mixture; so is he. And for the moment—with his eyes still holding hers more intimately than an embrace— it's worth it.

* * *

I usually steer clear of Laura's perspective--she's a tricky character--but I think this ramble through her thoughts falls within the possible. And I don't know about the leaves, either, maybe he'll share someday. :) If you enjoyed traipsing through Laura and Steele country with me, let me know—review!


End file.
